“I mean,” explained Poirot, “that if the murderer intended us to believe that he had escaped by way of the window he would naturally make it appear that the other two exits were impossible. Like the ‘disappearing person’ in the cabinet— it is a trick. It is our business to find out how the trick is done.” He locked the communicating door on their side. “In case,” he said, “the excellent Mrs. Hubbard should take it into her head to acquire first-hand details of the crime to write to her daughter.” He looked round once more. “There is nothing more to do here, I think. Let us rejoin M. Bouc.”
Eight THE ARMSTRONG KIDNAPPING CASE They found M. Bouc finishing an omelet. “I thought it best to have lunch served immediately in the restaurant car,” he said. “Afterwards it will be cleared and M. Poirot can conduct his examination of the passengers there. In the meantime I have ordered them to bring us three some food here.” “An excellent idea,” said Poirot. Neither of the other two men was hungry, and the meal was soon eaten, but not till they were sipping their coffee did M. Bouc mention the subject that was occupying all their minds. “Eh bien?” he asked. “Eh bien, I have discovered the identity of the victim. I know why it was imperative he should leave America.” “Who was he?” “Do you remember reading of the Armstrong baby? This is the man who murdered little Daisy Armstrong—Cassetti.” “I recall it now. A shocking affair—though I cannot remember the details.” “Colonel Armstrong was an Englishman—a V.C. He was half American, as his mother was a daughter of W. K. Van der Halt, the Wall Street millionaire. He married the daughter of Linda Arden, the most famous tragic American actress of her day. They lived in America and had one child—a girl—whom they idolized. When she was three years old she was kidnapped, and an impossibly high sum demanded as the price of her return. I will not weary you with all the intricacies that followed. I will come to the moment, when, after having paid over the enormous sum of two hundred thousand dollars, the child’s dead body was discovered, it having been dead at least a fortnight. Public indignation rose to fever point. And there was worse to follow. Mrs. Armstrong was expecting another child. Following the shock of the discovery, she gave birth to a dead child born prematurely, and herself died. Her broken-hearted husband shot himself.” “Mon Dieu, what a tragedy. I remember now,” said M. Bouc. “There was
also another death, if I remember rightly?” “Yes—an unfortunate French or Swiss nursemaid. The police were convinced that she had some knowledge of the crime. They refused to believe her hysterical denials. Finally, in a fit of despair, the poor girl threw herself from a window and was killed. It was proved afterwards that she was absolutely innocent of any complicity in the crime.” “It is not good to think of,” said M. Bouc. “About six months later, this man Cassetti was arrested as the head of the gang who had kidnapped the child. They had used the same methods in the past. If the police seemed likely to get on their trail, they had killed their prisoner, hidden the body, and continued to extract as much money as possible before the crime was discovered. “Now, I will make clear to you this, my friend. Cassetti was the man! But by means of the enormous wealth he had piled up and by the secret hold he had over various persons, he was acquitted on some technical inaccuracy. Notwithstanding that, he would have been lynched by the populace had he not been clever enough to give them the slip. It is now clear to me what happened. He changed his name and left America. Since then he has been a gentleman of leisure, travelling abroad and living on his rentes.” “Ah! quel animal!” M. Bouc’s tone was redolent of heartfelt disgust. “I cannot regret that he is dead—not at all!” “I agree with you.” “Tout de même, it is not necessary that he should be killed on the Orient Express. There are other places.” Poirot smiled a little. He realized that M. Bouc was biased in the matter. “The question we have now to ask ourselves is this,” he said. “Is this murder the work of some rival gang whom Cassetti had double-crossed in the past, or is it an act of private vengeance?” He explained his discovery of the few words on the charred fragment of paper. “If I am right in my assumption, then the letter was burnt by the murderer. Why? Because it mentioned the word ‘Armstrong,’ which is the clue to the mystery.” “Are there any members of the Armstrong family living?” “That, unfortunately, I do not know. I think I remember reading of a younger sister of Mrs. Armstrong’s.” Poirot went on to relate the joint conclusions of himself and Dr. Constantine. M. Bouc brightened at the mention of the broken watch. “That seems to give us the time of the crime very exactly.” “Yes,” said Poirot. “It is very convenient.”
“Yes,” said Poirot. “It is very convenient.” There was an indescribable something in his tone that made both the other two look at him curiously. “You say that you yourself heard Ratchett speak to the conductor at twenty minutes to one?” Poirot related just what had occurred. “Well,” said M. Bouc, “that proves at least that Cassetti—or Ratchett, as I shall continue to call him—was certainly alive at twenty minutes to one.” “Twenty-three minutes to one, to be precise.” “Then at twelve thirty-seven, to put it formally, M. Ratchett was alive. That is one fact, at least.” Poirot did not reply. He sat looking thoughtfully in front of him. There was a tap on the door, and the restaurant attendant entered. “The restaurant car is free now, Monsieur,” he said. “We will go there,” said M. Bouc, rising. “I may accompany you?” asked Constantine. “Certainly, my dear doctor. Unless M. Poirot has any objection?” “Not at all. Not at all,” said Poirot. After a little politeness in the matter of procedure, “Après vous, Monsieur.” “Mais non, après vous,” they left the compartment.
PART TWO THE EVIDENCE
One THE EVIDENCE OF THE WAGON LIT CONDUCTOR In the restaurant car all was in readiness. Poirot and M. Bouc sat together on one side of a table. The doctor sat across the aisle. On the table in front of Poirot was a plan of the Istanbul-Calais coach with the names of the passengers marked in in red ink. The passports and tickets were in a pile at one side. There was writing paper, ink, pen and pencils. “Excellent,” said Poirot. “We can open our Court of Inquiry without more ado. First, I think, we should take the evidence of the Wagon Lit conductor. You probably know something about the man. What character has he? Is he a man in whose word you would place reliance?” “I should say so most assuredly. Pierre Michel has been employed by the company for over fifteen years. He is a Frenchman—lives near Calais. Thoroughly respectable and honest. Not, perhaps, remarkable for brains.” Poirot nodded comprehendingly. “Good,” he said. “Let us see him.” Pierre Michel had recovered some of his assurance, but he was still extremely nervous. “I hope Monsieur will not think that there has been any negligence on my part,” he said anxiously, his eyes going from Poirot to M. Bouc. “It is a terrible thing that has happened. I hope Monsieur does not think that it reflects on me in any way?” Having soothed the man’s fears, Poirot began his questions. He first elicited Michel’s name and address, his length of service, and the length of time he had been on this particular route. These particulars he already knew, but the routine questions served to put the man at his ease. “And now,” went on Poirot, “let us come to the events of last night. M. Ratchett retired to bed—when?” “Almost immediately after dinner, Monsieur. Actually before we left Belgrade. So he did on the previous night. He had directed me to make up the bed while he was at dinner, and I did so.”
bed while he was at dinner, and I did so.” “Did anybody go into his compartment afterwards?” “His valet, Monsieur, and the young American gentleman his secretary.” “Anyone else?” “No, Monsieur, not that I know of.” “Good. And that is the last you saw or heard of him?” “No, Monsieur. You forget, he rang his bell about twenty to one—soon after we had stopped.” “What happened exactly?”
“I knocked at the door, but he called out and said he had made a mistake.” “In English or in French?” “In French.” “What were his words exactly?” “Ce n’est rien. Je me suis trompé.” “Quite right,” said Poirot. “That is what I heard. And then you went away?” “Yes, Monsieur.” “Did you go back to your seat?” “No, Monsieur, I went first to answer another bell that had just rung.” “Now, Michel, I am going to ask you an important question. Where were you at a quarter past one?” “I, Monsieur? I was at my little seat at the end—facing up the corridor.” “You are sure?” “Mais oui—at least—” “Yes?” “I went into the next coach, the Athens coach, to speak to my colleague there. We spoke about the snow. That was at some time soon after one o’clock. I cannot say exactly.” “And you returned—when?” “One of my bells rang, Monsieur—I remember—I told you. It was the American lady. She had rung several times.” “I recollect,” said Poirot. “And after that?” “After that, Monsieur? I answered your bell and brought you some mineral water. Then, about half an hour later, I made up the bed in one of the other compartments—that of the young American gentleman, M. Ratchett’s secretary.” “Was M. MacQueen alone in his compartment when you went to make up his bed?” “The English Colonel from No. 15 was with him. They had been sitting talking.” “What did the Colonel do when he left M. MacQueen?” “He went back to his own compartment.” “No. 15—that is quite close to your seat, is it not?” “Yes, Monsieur, it is the second compartment from that end of the corridor.” “His bed was already made up?” “Yes, Monsieur. I had made it up while he was at dinner.” “What time was all this?” “I could not say exactly, Monsieur. Not later than two o’clock, certainly.” “And after that?”
“And after that?” “After that, Monsieur, I sat in my seat till morning.” “You did not go again into the Athens coach?” “No, Monsieur.” “Perhaps you slept?” “I do not think so, Monsieur. The train being at a standstill prevented me from dozing off as I usually do.” “Did you see any of the passengers moving up or down the corridor?” The man reflected. “One of the ladies went to the toilet at the far end, I think.” “Which lady?” “I do not know, Monsieur. It was far down the corridor, and she had her back to me. She had on a kimono of scarlet with dragons on it.” Poirot nodded. “And after that?” “Nothing, Monsieur, until the morning.” “You are sure?” “Ah, pardon, you yourself, Monsieur, opened your door and looked out for a second.” “Good, my friend,” said Poirot. “I wondered whether you would remember that. By the way, I was awakened by what sounded like something heavy falling against my door. Have you any idea what that could have been?” The man stared at him. “There was nothing, Monsieur. Nothing, I am positive of it.” “Then I must have had the cauchemar,” said Poirot philosophically. “Unless,” said M. Bouc, “it was something in the compartment next door that you heard.” Poirot took no notice of the suggestion. Perhaps he did not wish to before the Wagon Lit conductor. “Let us pass to another point,” he said. “Supposing that last night an assassin joined the train. It is quite certain that he could not have left it after committing the crime?” Pierre Michael shook his head. “Nor that he can be concealed on it somewhere?” “It has been well searched,” said M. Bouc. “Abandon that idea, my friend.” “Besides,” said Michel, “no one could get on to the sleeping car without my seeing them.” “When was the last stop?” “Vincovci.” “What time was that?”
“What time was that?” “We should have left there at 11:58. But owing to the weather we were twenty minutes late.” “Someone might have come along from the ordinary part of the train?” “No, Monsieur. After the service of dinner the door between the ordinary carriages and the sleeping cars is locked.” “Did you yourself descend from the train at Vincovci?” “Yes, Monsieur. I got down on to the platform as usual and stood by the step up into the train. The other conductors did the same.” “What about the forward door? The one near the restaurant car?” “It is always fastened on the inside.” “It is not so fastened now.” The man looked surprised, then his face cleared. “Doubtless one of the passengers has opened it to look out on the snow.” “Probably,” said Poirot. He tapped thoughtfully on the table for a minute or two. “Monsieur does not blame me?” said the man timidly. Poirot smiled on him kindly. “You have had the evil chance, my friend,” he said. “Ah! One other point while I remember it. You said that another bell rang just as you were knocking at M. Ratchett’s door. In fact, I heard it myself. Whose was it?” “It was the bell of Madame la Princesse Dragomiroff. She desired me to summon her maid.” “And you did so?” “Yes, Monsieur.” Poirot studied the plan in front of him thoughtfully. Then he inclined his head. “That is all,” he said, “for the moment.” “Thank you, Monsieur.” The man rose. He looked at M. Bouc. “Do not distress yourself,” said the latter kindly. “I cannot see that there has been any negligence on your part.” Gratified, Pierre Michel left the compartment.
Two THE EVIDENCE OF THE SECRETARY For a minute or two Poirot remained lost in thought. “I think,” he said at last, “that it would be well to have a further word with M. MacQueen, in view of what we now know.” The young American appeared promptly. “Well,” he said, “how are things going?” “Not too badly. Since our last conversation I have learnt something—the identity of M. Ratchett.” Hector MacQueen leaned forward interestedly. “Yes?” he said. “Ratchett, as you suspected, was merely an alias. Ratchett was Cassetti, the man who ran the celebrated kidnapping stunts—including the famous affair of little Daisy Armstrong.” An expression of utter astonishment appeared on MacQueen’s face; then it darkened. “The damned skunk!” he exclaimed. “You had no idea of this, M. MacQueen?” “No, sir,” said the young American decidedly. “If I had I’d have cut off my right hand before it had a chance to do secretarial work for him!” “You feel strongly about the matter, M. MacQueen?” “I have a particular reason for doing so. My father was the district attorney who handled the case, M. Poirot. I saw Mrs. Armstrong more than once—she was a lovely woman. So gentle and heartbroken.” His face darkened. “If ever a man deserved what he got, Ratchett or Cassetti is the man. I’m rejoiced at his end. Such a man wasn’t fit to live!” “You almost feel as though you would have been willing to do the good deed yourself?” “I do. I—” He paused, then flushed rather guiltily. “Seems I’m kind of incriminating myself.” “I should be more inclined to suspect you, M. MacQueen, if you displayed an inordinate sorrow at your employer’s decease.” “I don’t think I could do that, even to save myself from the chair,” said
“I don’t think I could do that, even to save myself from the chair,” said MacQueen grimly. Then he added: “If I’m not being unduly curious, just how did you figure this out? Cassetti’s identity, I mean.” “By a fragment of a letter found in his compartment.” “But surely—I mean—that was rather careless of the old man?” “That depends,” said Poirot, “on the point of view.” The young man seemed to find this remark rather baffling. He stared at Poirot as though trying to make him out. “The task before me,” said Poirot, “is to make sure of the movements of everyone on the train. No offence need be taken, you understand? It is only a matter of routine.” “Sure. Get right on with it and let me clear my character if I can.” “I need hardly ask you the number of your compartment,” said Poirot, smiling, “since I shared it with you for a night. It is the second-class compartment Nos. 6 and 7, and after my departure you had it to yourself.” “That’s right.” “Now, M. MacQueen, I want you to describe your movements last night from the time of leaving the dining car.” “That’s quite easy. I went back to my compartment, read a bit, got out on the platform at Belgrade, decided it was too cold, and got in again. I talked for a while to a young English lady who is in the compartment next to mine. Then I fell into conversation with that Englishman, Colonel Arbuthnot—as a matter of fact I think you passed us as we were talking. Then I went in to Mr. Ratchett and, as I told you, took down some memoranda of letters he wanted written. I said good night to him and left him. Colonel Arbuthnot was still standing in the corridor. His compartment was already made up for the night, so I suggested that he should come along to mine. I ordered a couple of drinks and we got right down to it. Discussed world politics and the Government of India and our own troubles with the financial situation and the Wall Street crisis. I don’t as a rule cotton to Britishers—they’re a stiff-necked lot—but I liked this one.” “Do you know what time it was when he left you?” “Pretty late. Getting on for two o’clock, I should say.” “You noticed that the train had stopped?” “Oh, yes. We wondered a bit. Looked out and saw the snow lying very thick, but we didn’t think it was serious.” “What happened when Colonel Arbuthnot finally said good night?” “He went along to his compartment and I called to the conductor to make up my bed.”
my bed.” “Where were you whilst he was making it?” “Standing just outside the door in the corridor smoking a cigarette.” “And then?” “And then I went to bed and slept till morning.” “During the evening did you leave the train at all?” “Arbuthnot and I thought we’d get out at—what was the name of the place? —Vincovci to stretch our legs a bit. But it was bitterly cold—a blizzard on. We soon hopped back again.” “By which door did you leave the train?” “By the one nearest to our compartment.” “The one next to the dining car?” “Yes.” “Do you remember if it was bolted?” MacQueen considered. “Why, yes, I seem to remember it was. At least there was a kind of bar that fitted across the handle. Is that what you mean?” “Yes. On getting back into the train did you replace that bar?” “Why, no—I don’t think I did. I got in last. No, I don’t seem to remember doing so.” He added suddenly: “Is that an important point?” “It may be. Now, I presume, Monsieur, that while you and Colonel Arbuthnot were sitting talking the door of your compartment into the corridor was open?” Hector MacQueen nodded. “I want you, if you can, to tell me if anyone passed along that corridor after the train left Vincovci until the time you parted company for the night.” MacQueen drew his brows together. “I think the conductor passed along once,” he said, “coming from the direction of the dining car. And a woman passed the other way, going towards it.” “Which woman?” “I couldn’t say. I didn’t really notice. You see, I was just arguing a point with Arbuthnot. I just seem to remember a glimpse of some scarlet silk affair passing the door. I didn’t look, and anyway I wouldn’t have seen the person’s face. As you know, my carriage faces the dining car end of the train, so a woman going along the corridor in that direction would have her back to me as soon as she passed.” Poirot nodded.
Poirot nodded. “She was going to the toilet, I presume?” “I suppose so.” “And you saw her return?” “Well, no, now that you mention it, I didn’t notice her returning, but I suppose she must have done so.” “One more question. Do you smoke a pipe, M. MacQueen?” “No, sir, I do not.” Poirot paused a moment. “I think that is all at present. I should now like to see the valet of M. Ratchett. By the way, did both you and he always travel second-class?” “He did. But I usually went first—if possible in the adjoining compartment to Mr. Ratchett. Then he had most of his baggage put in my compartment and yet could get at both it and me easily whenever he chose. But on this occasion all the first-class berths were booked except the one which he took.” “I comprehend. Thank you, M. MacQueen.”
Three THE EVIDENCE OF THE VALET The American was succeeded by the pale Englishman with the inexpressive face whom Poirot had already noticed on the day before. He stood waiting very correctly. Poirot motioned to him to sit down. “You are, I understand, the valet of M. Ratchett?” “Yes, sir.” “Your name?” “Edward Henry Masterman.” “Your age?” “Thirty-nine.” “And your home address?” “21 Friar Street, Clerkenwell.” “You have heard that your master has been murdered?” “Yes, sir. A very shocking occurrence.” “Will you now tell me, please, at what hour you last saw M. Ratchett?” The valet considered. “It must have been about nine o’clock, sir, last night. That or a little after.” “Tell me in your own words exactly what happened.” “I went in to Mr. Ratchett as usual, sir, and attended to his wants.” “What were your duties exactly?” “To fold or hang up his clothes, sir. Put his dental plate in water and see that he had everything he wanted for the night.” “Was his manner much the same as usual?” The valet considered a moment. “Well, sir, I think he was upset.” “In what way—upset?” “Over a letter he’d been reading. He asked me if it was I who had put it in his compartment. Of course I told him I hadn’t done any such thing, but he swore at me and found fault with everything I did.” “Was that unusual?” “Oh, no, sir, he lost his temper easily—as I say, it just depended what had happened to upset him.”
happened to upset him.” “Did your master ever take a sleeping draught?” Dr. Constantine leaned forward a little. “Always when travelling by train, sir. He said he couldn’t sleep otherwise.” “Do you know what drug he was in the habit of taking?” “I couldn’t say, I’m sure, sir. There was no name on the bottle. Just ‘The Sleeping Draught to be taken at bedtime.’” “Did he take it last night?” “Yes, sir. I poured it into a glass and put it on top of the toilet table ready for him.” “You didn’t actually see him drink it?” “No, sir.” “What happened next?” “I asked if there was anything further, and asked what time M. Ratchett would like to be called in the morning. He said he didn’t want to be disturbed till he rang.” “Was that usual?” “Quite usual, sir. He used to ring the bell for the conductor and then send him for me when he was ready to get up.” “Was he usually an early or a late riser?” “It depended, sir, on his mood. Sometimes he’d get up for breakfast, sometimes he wouldn’t get up till just on lunch time.” “So that you weren’t alarmed when the morning wore on and no summons came?” “No, sir.” “Did you know that your master had enemies?” “Yes, sir.” The man spoke quite unemotionally. “How did you know?” “I had heard him discussing some letters, sir, with Mr. MacQueen.” “Had you an affection for your employer, Masterman?” Masterman’s face became, if possible, even more inexpressive than it was normally. “I should hardly like to say that, sir. He was a generous employer.” “But you didn’t like him?” “Shall we put it that I don’t care very much for Americans, sir.” “Have you ever been in America?” “No, sir.” “Do you remember reading in the paper of the Armstrong kidnapping case?” A little colour came into the man’s cheeks.
A little colour came into the man’s cheeks. “Yes, indeed, sir. A little baby girl, wasn’t it? A very shocking affair.” “Did you know that your employer, M. Ratchett, was the principal instigator in that affair?” “No, indeed, sir.” The valet’s tone held positive warmth and feeling for the first time. “I can hardly believe it, sir.” “Nevertheless, it is true. Now, to pass to your own movements last night. A matter of routine, you understand. What did you do after leaving your master?” “I told Mr. MacQueen, sir, that the master wanted him. Then I went to my own compartment and read.” “Your compartment was—?” “The end second-class one, sir. Next to the dining car.” Poirot was looking at his plan. “I see—and you had which berth?” “The lower one, sir.” “That is No. 4?” “Yes, sir.” “Is there anyone in with you?” “Yes, sir. A big Italian fellow.” “Does he speak English?” “Well, a kind of English, sir.” The valet’s tone was deprecating. “He’s been in America—Chicago—I understand.” “Do you and he talk together much?” “No, sir. I prefer to read.” Poirot smiled. He could visualize the scene—the large voluble Italian, and the snub direct administered by the gentleman’s gentleman. “And what, may I ask, are you reading?” he inquired. “At present, sir, I am reading Love’s Captive, by Mrs. Arabella Richardson.” “A good story?” “I find it highly enjoyable, sir.” “Well, let us continue. You returned to your compartment and read Love’s Captive till—when?” “At about ten-thirty, sir, this Italian wanted to go to bed. So the conductor came and made the beds up.” “And then you went to bed and to sleep?” “I went to bed, sir, but I didn’t sleep.” “Why didn’t you sleep?” “I had the toothache, sir.” “Oh, là là—that is painful.” “Most painful, sir.”
“Most painful, sir.” “Did you do anything for it?” “I applied a little oil of cloves, sir, which relieved the pain a little, but I was still not able to get to sleep. I turned the light on above my head and continued to read—to take my mind off it, as it were.” “And did you not go to sleep at all?” “Yes, sir, I dropped off about four in the morning.” “And your companion?” “The Italian fellow? Oh, he just snored.” “He did not leave the compartment at all during the night?” “No, sir.” “Did you?” “No, sir.” “Did you hear anything during the night?” “I don’t think so, sir. Nothing unusual, I mean. The train being at a standstill made it all very quiet.” Poirot was silent a moment or two, then he said: “Well, I think there is very little more to be said. You cannot throw any light upon the tragedy?” “I’m afraid not. I’m sorry, sir.” “As far as you know, was there any quarrel or bad blood between your master and M. MacQueen?” “Oh, no, sir. Mr. MacQueen was a very pleasant gentleman.” “Where were you in service before you came to M. Ratchett?” “With Sir Henry Tomlinson, sir, in Grosvenor Square.” “Why did you leave him?” “He was going to East Africa, sir, and did not require my services any longer. But I am sure he will speak for me, sir. I was with him some years.” “And you have been with M. Ratchett—how long?” “Just over nine months, sir.” “Thank you, Masterman. By the way, are you a pipe smoker?” “No, sir. I only smoke cigarettes—gaspers, sir.” “Thank you. That will do.” The valet hesitated a moment. “You’ll excuse me, sir, but the elderly American lady is in what I might describe as a state, sir. She’s saying she knows all about the murderer. She’s in a very excitable condition, sir.” “In that case,” said Poirot, smiling, “we had better see her next.” “Shall I tell her, sir? She’s been demanding to see someone in authority for a long time. The conductor’s been trying to pacify her.” “Send her to us, my friend,” said Poirot. “We will listen to her story now.”
“Send her to us, my friend,” said Poirot. “We will listen to her story now.”
Four THE EVIDENCE OF THE AMERICAN LADY Mrs. Hubbard arrived in the dining car in such a state of breathless excitement that she was hardly able to articulate her words. “Now just tell me this. Who’s in authority here? I’ve got some vurry important information, vurry important, indeed, and I just want to tell it to someone in authority as soon as may be. If you gentlemen—” Her wavering glance fluctuated between the three men. Poirot leaned forward. “Tell it to me, Madame,” he said. “But, first, pray be seated.” Mrs. Hubbard plumped heavily down on to the seat opposite to him. “What I’ve got to tell you is just this. There was a murder on the train last night, and the murderer was right there in my compartment!” She paused to give dramatic emphasis to her words. “You are sure of this, Madame?” “Of course I’m sure! The idea! I know what I’m talking about. I’ll tell you just everything there is to tell. I’d gotten into bed and gone to sleep, and suddenly I woke up—all in the dark, it was—and I knew there was a man in my compartment. I was just so scared I couldn’t scream, if you know what I mean. I just lay there and thought, ‘Mercy, I’m going to be killed.’ I just can’t describe to you how I felt. These nasty trains, I thought, and all the outrages I’d read of. And I thought, ‘Well, anyway, he won’t get my jewellery.’ Because, you see, I’d put that in a stocking and hidden it under my pillow—which isn’t so mighty comfortable, by the way, kinder bumpy, if you know what I mean. But that’s neither here nor there. Where was I?” “You realized, Madame, that there was a man in your compartment.” “Yes, well, I just lay there with my eyes closed, and I thought whatever should I do, and I thought, ‘Well, I’m just thankful that my daughter doesn’t know the plight I’m in.’ And then, somehow, I got my wits about me and I felt about with my hand and I pressed the bell for the conductor. I pressed it and I pressed it, but nothing happened, and I can tell you I thought my heart was going to stop beating. ‘Mercy,’ I said to myself, ‘maybe they’ve murdered every single soul on the train.’ It was at a standstill, anyhow, and a nasty quiet feel in the air.
soul on the train.’ It was at a standstill, anyhow, and a nasty quiet feel in the air. But I just went on pressing that bell, and oh! the relief when I heard footsteps coming running down the corridor and a knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ I screamed, and I switched on the lights at the same time. And, would you believe it, there wasn’t a soul there.” This seemed to Mrs. Hubbard to be a dramatic climax rather than an anticlimax. “And what happened next, Madame?” “Why, I told the man what had happened, and he didn’t seem to believe me. Seemed to imagine I’d dreamt the whole thing. I made him look under the seat, though he said there wasn’t room for a man to squeeze himself in there. It was plain enough the man had got away, but there had been a man there and it just made me mad the way the conductor tried to soothe me down! I’m not one to imagine things, Mr.—I don’t think I know your name?” “Poirot, Madame, and this is M. Bouc, a director of the company, and Dr. Constantine.” Mrs. Hubbard murmured: “Please to meet you, I’m sure,” to all three of them in an abstracted manner, and then plunged once more into her recital. “Now I’m just not going to pretend I was as bright as I might have been. I got it into my head that it was the man from next door—the poor fellow who’s been killed. I told the conductor to look at the door between the compartments, and sure enough it wasn’t bolted. Well, I soon saw to that, I told him to bolt it then and there, and after he’d gone out I got up and put a suitcase against it to make sure.” “What time was this, Mrs. Hubbard?” “Well, I’m sure I can’t tell you. I never looked to see. I was so upset.” “And what is your theory now?” “Why, I should say it was just as plain as plain could be. The man in my compartment was the murderer. Who else could he be?” “And you think he went back into the adjoining compartment?” “How do I know where he went? I had my eyes tight shut.” “He must have slipped out through the door into the corridor.” “Well, I couldn’t say. You see, I had my eyes tight shut.” Mrs. Hubbard sighed convulsively. “Mercy, I was scared! If my daughter only knew—” “You do not think, Madame, that what you heard was the noise of someone moving about next door—in the murdered man’s compartment?” “No, I do not, Mr.—what is it?—Poirot. The man was right there in the
same compartment with me. And, what’s more, I’ve got proof of it.” Triumphantly she hauled a large handbag into view and proceeded to burrow in its interior. She took out in turn two large clean handkerchiefs, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, a bottle of aspirin, a packet of Glauber’s salts, a celluloid tube of bright green peppermints, a bunch of keys, a pair of scissors, a book of American Express cheques, a snapshot of an extraordinarily plain-looking child, some letters, five strings of pseudo Oriental beads and a small metal object—a button. “You see this button? Well, it’s not one of my buttons. It’s not off anything I’ve got. I found it this morning when I got up.” As she placed it on the table, M. Bouc leaned forward and gave an exclamation. “But this is a button from the tunic of a Wagon Lit attendant!” “There may be a natural explanation for that,” said Poirot. He turned gently to the lady. “This button, Madame, may have dropped from the conductor’s uniform, either when he searched your cabin, or when he was making the bed up last night.” “I just don’t know what’s the matter with all you people. Seems as though you don’t do anything but make objections. Now listen here. I was reading a magazine last night before I went to sleep. Before I turned the light out I placed that magazine on a little case that was standing on the floor near the window. Have you got that?” They assured her that they had. “Very well, then. The conductor looked under the seat from near the door and then he came in and bolted the door between me and the next compartment, but he never went up near the window. Well, this morning that button was lying right on top of the magazine. What do you call that, I should like to know?” “That, Madame, I call evidence,” said Poirot. The answer seemed to appease the lady. “It makes me madder than a hornet to be disbelieved,” she explained. “You have given us most interesting and valuable evidence,” said Poirot soothingly. “Now, may I ask you a few questions?” “Why, willingly.” “How was it, since you were nervous of this man Ratchett, that you hadn’t already bolted the door between the compartments?” “I had,” returned Mrs. Hubbard promptly. “Oh, you had?” “Well, as a matter of fact, I asked that Swedish creature—a pleasant soul—if it was bolted, and she said it was.”
it was bolted, and she said it was.” “How was it you couldn’t see for yourself?” “Because I was in bed and my sponge bag was hanging on the door handle.” “What time was it when you asked her to do this for you?” “Now let me think. It must have been round about half-past ten or a quarter to eleven. She’d come along to see if I’d got an aspirin. I told her where to find it, and she got it out of my grip.” “You yourself were in bed?” “Yes.” Suddenly she laughed. “Poor soul—she was in quite a taking. You see, she’d opened the door of the next compartment by mistake.” “M. Ratchett’s?” “Yes. You know how difficult it is as you come along the train and all the doors are shut. She opened his by mistake. She was very distressed about it. He’d laughed, it seemed, and I fancy he may have said something not quite nice. Poor thing, she was all in a flutter. ‘Oh! I make mistake,’ she said. ‘I ashamed make mistake. Not nice man,’ she said. ‘He say, “You too old.’” Dr. Constantine sniggered and Mrs. Hubbard immediately froze him with a glance. “He wasn’t a nice kind of man,” she said, “to say a thing like that to a lady. It’s not right to laugh at such things.” Dr. Constantine hastily apologized. “Did you hear any noise from M. Ratchett’s compartment after that?” asked Poirot. “Well—not exactly.” “What do you mean by that, Madame?” “Well—” she paused. “He snored.” “Ah! he snored, did he?” “Terribly. The night before it quite kept me awake.” “You didn’t hear him snore after you had had the scare about a man being in your compartment?” “Why, Mr. Poirot, how could I? He was dead.” “Ah, yes, truly,” said Poirot. He appeared confused. “Do you remember the affair of the Armstrong kidnapping, Mrs. Hubbard?” he asked. “Yes, indeed I do. And how the wretch that did it escaped scot free! My, I’d have liked to get my hands on him.” “He has not escaped. He is dead. He died last night.” “You don’t mean—?” Mrs. Hubbard half rose from her chair in excitement.
“You don’t mean—?” Mrs. Hubbard half rose from her chair in excitement. “But yes, I do. Ratchett was the man.” “Well! Well, to think of that! I must write and tell my daughter. Now, didn’t I tell you last night that that man had an evil face? I was right, you see. My daughter always says: ‘When Momma’s got a hunch, you can bet your bottom dollar it’s O.K.’” “Were you acquainted with any of the Armstrong family, Mrs. Hubbard?” “No. They moved in a very exclusive circle. But I’ve always heard that Mrs. Armstrong was a perfectly lovely woman and that her husband worshipped her.” “Well, Mrs. Hubbard, you have helped us very much—very much indeed. Perhaps you will give me your full name?” “Why, certainly. Caroline Martha Hubbard.” “Will you write your address down here?” Mrs. Hubbard did so, without ceasing to speak. “I just can’t get over it. Cassetti—on this train. I had a hunch about that man, didn’t I, Mr. Poirot?” “Yes, indeed, Madame. By the way, have you a scarlet silk dressing gown?” “Mercy, what an odd question! Why, no. I’ve got two dressing gowns with me—a pink flannel one that’s kind of cosy for on board ship, and one my daughter gave me as a present—a kind of local affair in purple silk. But what in creation do you want to know about my dressing gowns for?” “Well, you see, Madame, someone in a scarlet kimono entered either your or Mr. Ratchett’s compartment last night. It is, as you said just now, very difficult when all the doors are shut to know which compartment is which.” “Well, no one in a scarlet dressing gown came into my compartment.” “Then she must have gone into M. Ratchett’s.” Mrs. Hubbard pursed her lips together and said grimly: “That wouldn’t surprise me any.” Poirot leaned forward. “So you heard a woman’s voice next door?” “I don’t know how you guessed that, Mr. Poirot. I don’t really. But—well— as a matter of fact, I did.” “But when I asked you just now if you heard anything next door, you only said you heard Mr. Ratchett snoring.” “Well that was true enough. He did snore part of the time. As for the other —” Mrs. Hubbard got rather pink. “It isn’t a very nice thing to speak about.” “What time was it when you heard a woman’s voice?” “I can’t tell you. I just woke up for a minute and heard a woman talking, and it was plain enough where she was. So I just thought, ‘Well that’s the kind of man he is. Well, I’m not surprised,’ and then I went to sleep again, and I’m sure
man he is. Well, I’m not surprised,’ and then I went to sleep again, and I’m sure I should never have mentioned anything of the kind to three strange gentlemen if you hadn’t dragged it out of me.” “Was it before the scare about the man in your compartment, or after?” “Why, that’s like what you said just now! He wouldn’t have had a woman talking to him if he were dead, would he?” “Pardon. You must think me very stupid, Madame.” “I guess even you get kinder muddled now and then. I just can’t get over it being that monster Cassetti. What my daughter will say—” Poirot managed adroitly to help the good lady to restore the contents of her handbag and he then shepherded her towards the door. At the last moment he said: “You have dropped your handkerchief, Madame.” Mrs. Hubbard looked at the little scrap of cambric he held out to her. “That’s not mine, Mr. Poirot. I’ve got mine right here.” “Pardon. I thought as it had the initial H on it—” “Well, now, that’s curious, but it’s certainly not mine. Mine are marked C.M.H., and they’re sensible things—not expensive Paris fallals. What good is a handkerchief like that to anybody’s nose?” Neither of the three men seemed to have an answer to this question, and Mrs. Hubbard sailed out triumphantly.
Five THE EVIDENCE OF THE SWEDISH LADY M. Bouc was handling the button Mrs. Hubbard had left behind her. “This button. I cannot understand it. Does it mean that, after all, Pierre Michel is involved in some way?” he said. He paused, then continued, as Poirot did not reply. “What have you to say, my friend?” “That button, it suggests possibilities,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Let us interview next the Swedish lady before we discuss the evidence we have heard.” He sorted through the pile of passports in front of him. “Ah! here we are. Greta Ohlsson, age forty-nine.” M. Bouc gave directions to the restaurant attendant, and presently the lady with the yellowish-grey bun of hair and the long mild sheep-like face was ushered in. She peered shortsightedly at Poirot through her glasses, but was quite calm. It transpired that she understood and spoke French, so that the conversation took place in that language. Poirot first asked her the questions to which he already knew the answers—her name, age, and address. He then asked her her occupation. She was, she told him, matron in a missionary school near Stamboul. She was a trained nurse. “You know, of course, of what took place last night, Mademoiselle?” “Naturally. It is very dreadful. And the American lady tells me that the murderer was actually in her compartment.” “I hear, Mademoiselle, that you were the last person to see the murdered man alive?” “I do not know. It may be so. I opened the door of his compartment by mistake. I was much ashamed. It was a most awkward mistake.” “You actually saw him?” “Yes. He was reading a book. I apologized quickly and withdrew.” “Did he say anything to you?” A slight flush showed on the worthy lady’s cheek. “He laughed and said a few words. I—I did not quite catch them.” “And what did you do after that, Mademoiselle?” asked Poirot, passing from the subject tactfully.
the subject tactfully. “I went in to the American lady, Mrs. Hubbard. I asked her for some aspirin and she gave it to me.” “Did she ask you whether the communicating door between her compartment and that of M. Ratchett was bolted?” “Yes.” “And was it?” “Yes.” “And after that?” “After that I go back to my own compartment, I take the aspirin and lie down.” “What time was all this?” “When I got into bed it was five minutes to eleven, because I look at my watch before I wind it up.” “Did you go to sleep quickly?” “Not very quickly. My head got better, but I lay awake some time.” “Had the train come to a stop before you went to sleep?” “I do not think so. We stopped, I think, at a station, just as I was getting drowsy.” “That would be Vincovci. Now your compartment, Mademoiselle, is this one?” he indicated it on the plan. “That is so, yes.” “You had the upper or the lower berth?” “The lower berth, No. 10.” “And you had a companion?” “Yes, a young English lady. Very nice, very amiable. She had travelled from Baghdad.” “After the train left Vincovci, did she leave the compartment?” “No, I am sure she did not.” “Why are you sure if you were asleep?” “I sleep very lightly. I am used to waking at a sound. I am sure if she had come down from the berth above I would have awakened.” “Did you yourself leave the compartment?” “Not until this morning.” “Have you a scarlet silk kimono, Mademoiselle?” “No, indeed. I have a good comfortable dressing gown of Jaeger material.” “A pale mauve abba such as you buy in the East.” Poirot nodded. Then he said in a friendly tone: “Why are you taking this journey? A holiday?” “Yes, I am going home for a holiday. But first I go to Lausanne to stay with
“Yes, I am going home for a holiday. But first I go to Lausanne to stay with a sister for a week or so.” “Perhaps you will be so amiable as to write me down the name and address of your sister?” “With pleasure.” She took the paper and pencil he gave her and wrote down the name and address as requested. “Have you ever been in America, Mademoiselle?” “No. Very nearly once. I was to go with an invalid lady, but it was cancelled at the last moment. I much regretted. They are very good, the Americans. They give much money to found schools and hospitals. They are very practical.” “Do you remember hearing of the Armstrong kidnapping case?” “No, what was that?” Poirot explained. Greta Ohlsson was indignant. Her yellow bun of hair quivered with her emotion. “That there are in the world such evil men! It tries one’s faith. The poor mother. My heart aches for her.” The amiable Swede departed, her kindly face flushed, her eyes suffused with tears. Poirot was writing busily on a sheet of paper. “What is it you write there, my friend?” asked M. Bouc. “Mon cher, it is my habit to be neat and orderly. I make here a little table of chronological events.” He finished writing and passed the paper to M. Bouc. 9:15 Train leaves Belgrade. about 9:40 Valet leaves Ratchett with sleeping draught beside him. about 10:00 MacQueen leaves Ratchett. about 10:40 Greta Ohlsson sees Ratchett (last seen alive). N.B.—He was awake reading a book. 0:10 Train leaves Vincovci (late). 0:30 Train runs into a snowdrift. 0:37 Ratchett’s bell rings. Conductor answers it. Ratchett says, “Ce n’est rien. Je me suis trompé.” about 1:17 Mrs. Hubbard thinks man is in her carriage. Rings for conductor. M. Bouc nodded approval. “That is very clear,” he said. “There is nothing there that strikes you as at all odd?”
“There is nothing there that strikes you as at all odd?” “No, it seems all quite clear and above board. It seems quite plain that the crime was committed at 1:15. The evidence of the watch shows us that, and Mrs. Hubbard’s story fits in. For my mind, I will make a guess at the identity of the murderer. I say, my friend, that it is the big Italian. He comes from America— from Chicago—and remember an Italian’s weapon is the knife, and he stabs not once but several times.” “That is true.” “Without a doubt, that is the solution of the mystery. Doubtless he and this Ratchett were in this kidnapping business together. Cassetti is an Italian name. In some way Ratchett did on him what they call the double-cross. The Italian tracks him down, sends him warning letters first, and finally revenges himself upon him in a brutal way. It is all quite simple.” Poirot shook his head doubtfully. “It is hardly as simple as that, I fear,” he murmured. “Me, I am convinced it is the truth,” said M. Bouc, becoming more and more enamoured of his theory. “And what about the valet with the toothache who swears that the Italian never left the compartment?” “That is the difficulty.” Poirot twinkled. “Yes, it is annoying, that. Unlucky for your theory, and extremely lucky for our Italian friend that M. Ratchett’s valet should have had the toothache.” “It will be explained,” said M. Bouc with magnificent certainty. Poirot shook his head again. “No, it is hardly so simple as that,” he murmured again.
Six THE EVIDENCE OF THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS “Let us hear what Pierre Michel has to say about this button,” he said. The Wagon Lit conductor was recalled. He looked at them inquiringly. M. Bouc cleared his throat. “Michel,” he said. “Here is a button from your tunic. It was found in the American lady’s compartment. What have you to say for yourself about it?” The conductor’s hand went automatically to his tunic. “I have lost no button, Monsieur,” he said. “There must be some mistake.” “That is very odd.” “I cannot account for it, Monsieur.” The man seemed astonished, but not in any way guilty or confused. M. Bouc said meaningly: “Owing to the circumstances in which it was found, it seems fairly certain that this button was dropped by the man who was in Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment last night when she rang the bell.” “But, Monsieur, there was no one there. The lady must have imagined it.” “She did not imagine it, Michael. The assassin of M. Ratchett passed that way—and dropped that button.” As the significance of M. Bouc’s word became plain to him, Pierre Michel flew into a violent state of agitation. “It is not true, Monsieur, it is not true!” he cried. “You are accusing me of the crime. Me? I am innocent. I am absolutely innocent. Why should I want to kill a Monsieur whom I have never seen before?” “Where were you when Mrs. Hubbard’s bell rang?” “I told you, Monsieur, in the next coach, talking to my colleague.” “We will send for him.” “Do so, Monsieur, I implore you, do so.” The conductor of the next coach was summoned. He immediately confirmed Pierre Michel’s statement. He added that the conductor from the Bucharest coach had also been there. The three of them had been discussing the situation caused by the snow. They had been talking some ten minutes when Michel fancied he heard a bell. As he opened the doors connecting the two coaches, they
fancied he heard a bell. As he opened the doors connecting the two coaches, they had all heard it plainly. A bell ringing repeatedly. Michel had run posthaste to answer it. “So you see, Monsieur, I am not guilty,” cried Michel anxiously. “And this button from a Wagon Lit tunic—how do you explain it?” “I cannot, Monsieur. It is a mystery to me. All my buttons are intact.” Both of the other conductors also declared that they had not lost a button. Also that they had not been inside Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment at any time. “Calm yourself, Michel,” said M. Bouc, “and cast your mind back to the moment when you ran to answer Mrs. Hubbard’s bell. Did you meet anyone at all in the corridor?” “No, Monsieur.” “Did you see anyone going away from you down the corridor in the other direction?” “Again, no. Monsieur.” “Odd,” said M. Bouc. “Not so very,” said Poirot. “It is a question of time. Mrs. Hubbard wakes to find someone in her compartment. For a minute or two she lies paralysed, her eyes shut. Probably it was then that the man slipped out into the corridor. Then she starts ringing the bell. But the conductor does not come at once. It is only the third or fourth peal that he hears. I should say myself that there was ample time —” “For what? For what, mon cher? Remember that there are thick drifts of snow all round the train.” “There are two courses open to our mysterious assassin,” said Poirot slowly. “He could retreat into either of the toilets or he could disappear into one of the compartments.” “But they were all occupied.” “Yes.” “You mean that he could retreat into his own compartment?” Poirot nodded. “It fits, it fits,” murmured M. Bouc. “During that ten minutes’ absence of the conductor, the murderer comes from his own compartment, goes into Ratchett’s, kills him, locks and chains the door on the inside, goes out through Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment and is back safely in his own compartment by the time the conductor arrives.” Poirot murmured: “It is not quite so simple as that, my friend. Our friend the doctor here will tell you so.” With a gesture M. Bouc signified that the three conductors might depart.
With a gesture M. Bouc signified that the three conductors might depart. “We have still to see eight passengers,” said Poirot. “Five first-class passengers—Princess Dragomiroff, Count and Countess Andrenyi, Colonel Arbuthnot and Mr. Hardman. Three second-class passengers—Miss Debenham, Antonio Foscarelli and the lady’s maid, Fräulein Schmidt.” “Who will you see first—the Italian?” “How you harp on your Italian! No, we will start at the top of the tree. Perhaps Madame la Princesse will be so good as to spare us a few moments of her time. Convey that message to her, Michel.” “Oui, Monsieur,” said the conductor, who was just leaving the car. “Tell her we can wait on her in her compartment if she does not wish to put herself to the trouble of coming here,” called M. Bouc. But Princess Dragomiroff declined to take this course. She appeared in the dining car, inclined her head slightly and sat down opposite Poirot. Her small toad-like face looked even yellower than the day before. She was certainly ugly, and yet, like the toad, she had eyes like jewels, dark and imperious, revealing latent energy and an intellectual force that could be felt at once. Her voice was deep, very distinct, with a slight grating quality in it. She cut short a flowery phrase of apology from M. Bouc. “You need not offer apologies, Messieurs. I understand a murder has taken place. Naturally, you must interview all the passengers. I shall be glad to give all the assistance in my power.” “You are most amiable, Madame,” said Poirot. “Not at all. It is a duty. What do you wish to know?” “Your full Christian names and address, Madame. Perhaps you would prefer to write them yourself?” Poirot proffered a sheet of paper and pencil, but the Princess waved them aside. “You can write it,” she said. “There is nothing difficult—Natalia Dragomiroff, 17 Avenue Kleber, Paris.” “You are travelling home from Constantinople, Madame?” “Yes, I have been staying at the Austrian Embassy. My maid is with me.” “Would you be so good as to give me a brief account of your movements last night from dinner onwards?” “Willingly. I directed the conductor to make up my bed whilst I was in the dining car. I retired to bed immediately after dinner. I read until the hour of eleven, when I turned out my light. I was unable to sleep owing to certain rheumatic pains from which I suffer. At about a quarter to one I rang for my
maid. She massaged me and then read aloud till I felt sleepy. I cannot say exactly when she left me. It may have been half an hour, it may have been later.” “The train had stopped then?” “The train had stopped.” “You heard nothing—nothing unusual during the time, Madame?” “I heard nothing unusual.” “What is your maid’s name?” “Hildegarde Schmidt.” “She has been with you long?” “Fifteen years.” “You consider her trustworthy?” “Absolutely. Her people come from an estate of my late husband’s in Germany.” “You have been in America, I presume, Madame?” The abrupt change of subject made the old lady raise her eyebrows. “Many times.” “Were you at any time acquainted with a family of the name of Armstrong— a family in which a tragedy occurred?” With some emotion in her voice the old lady said: “You speak of friends of mine, Monsieur.” “You knew Colonel Armstrong well, then?” “I knew him slightly; but his wife, Sonia Armstrong, was my god-daughter. I was on terms of friendship with her mother, the actress, Linda Arden. Linda Arden was a great genius, one of the greatest tragic actresses in the world. As Lady Macbeth, as Magda, there was no one to touch her. I was not only an admirer of her art, I was a personal friend.” “She is dead?” “No, no, she is alive, but she lives in complete retirement. Her health is very delicate, she has to lie on a sofa most of the time.” “There was, I think, a second daughter?” “Yes, much younger than Mrs. Armstrong.” “And she is alive?” “Certainly.” “Where is she?” The old woman bent an acute glance at him. “I must ask you the reason of these questions. What have they to do with the matter in hand—the murder on this train?” “They are connected in this way, Madame, the man who was murdered was the man responsible for the kidnapping and murder of Mrs. Armstrong’s child.” “Ah!”
“Ah!” The straight brows drew together. Princess Dragomiroff drew herself a little more erect. “In my view, then, this murder is an entirely admirable happening! You will pardon my slightly biased point of view.” “It is most natural, Madame. And now to return to the question you did not answer. Where is the younger daughter of Linda Arden, the sister of Mrs. Armstrong?” “I honestly cannot tell you, Monsieur. I have lost touch with the younger generation. I believe she married an Englishman some years ago and went to England, but at the moment I cannot recollect the name.” She paused a minute and then said: “Is there anything further you want to ask me, gentlemen?” “Only one thing, Madame, a somewhat personal question. The colour of your dressing gown.” She raised her eyebrows slightly. “I must suppose you have a reason for such a question. My dressing gown is of blue satin.” “There is nothing more, Madame. I am much obliged to you for answering my questions so promptly.” She made a slight gesture with her heavily-beringed hand. Then, as she rose, and the others rose with her, she stopped. “You will excuse me, Monsieur,” she said, “but may I ask your name? Your face is somehow familiar to me.” “My name, Madame, is Hercule Poirot—at your service.” She was silent a minute, then: “Hercule Poirot,” she said. “Yes. I remember now. This is Destiny.” She walked away, very erect, a little stiff in her movements. “Voilà une grande dame,” said M. Bouc. “What do you think of her, my friend?” But Hercule Poirot merely shook his head. “I am wondering,” he said, “what she meant by Destiny.”
Seven THE EVIDENCE OF COUNT AND COUNTESS ANDRENYI Count and Countess Andrenyi were next summoned. The Count, however, entered the dining car alone. There was no doubt that he was a fine-looking man seen face to face. He was at least six feet in height, with broad shoulders and slender hips. He was dressed in very well-cut English tweeds, and might have been taken for an Englishman had it not been for the length of his moustache and something in the line of the cheekbone. “Well, Messieurs,” he said, “what can I do for you?” “You understand, Monsieur,” said Poirot, “that in view of what has occurred I am obliged to put certain questions to all the passengers.” “Perfectly, perfectly,” said the Count easily. “I quite understand your position. Not, I fear, that my wife and I can do much to assist you. We were asleep and heard nothing at all.” “Are you aware of the identity of the deceased, Monsieur?” “I understand it was the big American—a man with a decidedly unpleasant face. He sat at the table at meal times.” He indicated with a nod of his head the table at which Ratchett and MacQueen had sat. “Yes, yes, Monsieur, you are perfectly correct. I meant did you know the name of the man?” “No.” The Count looked thoroughly puzzled by Poirot’s queries. “If you want to know his name,” he said, “surely it is on his passport?” “The name on his passport is Ratchett,” said Poirot. “But that, Monsieur, is not his real name. He is the man Cassetti, who was responsible for a celebrated kidnapping outrage in America.” He watched the Count closely as he spoke, but the latter seemed quite unaffected by the piece of news. He merely opened his eyes a little. “Ah!” he said. “That certainly should throw light upon the matter. An extraordinary country America.” “You have been there, perhaps, Monsieur le Comte?” “I was in Washington for a year.”
“I was in Washington for a year.” “You knew, perhaps, the Armstrong family?” “Armstrong—Armstrong—it is difficult to recall—one met so many.” He smiled, shrugged his shoulders. “But to come back to the matter in hand, gentlemen,” he said. “What more can I do to assist you?” “You retired to rest—when, Monsieur le Comte?” Hercule Poirot’s eyes stole to his plan. Count and Countess Andrenyi occupied compartments No. 12 and 13 adjoining. “We had one compartment made up for the night whilst we were in the dining car. On returning we sat in the other for a while—” “What number would that be?” “No. 13. We played picquet together. About eleven o’clock my wife retired for the night. The conductor made up my compartment and I also went to bed. I slept soundly until morning.” “Did you notice the stopping of the train?” “I was not aware of it till this morning.” “And your wife?” The Count smiled. “My wife always takes a sleeping draught when travelling by train. She took her usual dose of trional.” He paused. “I am sorry I am not able to assist you in any way.” Poirot passed him a sheet of paper and a pen. “Thank you, Monsieur le Comte. It is a formality, but will you just let me have your name and address?” The Count wrote slowly and carefully. “It is just as well I should write this for you,” he said pleasantly. “The spelling of my country estate is a little difficult for those unacquainted with the language.” He passed the paper across to Poirot and rose. “It will be quite unnecessary for my wife to come here,” he said. “She can tell you nothing more than I have.” A little gleam came into Poirot’s eye. “Doubtless, doubtless,” he said. “But all the same I think I should like to have just one little word with Madame la Comtesse.” “I assure you it is quite unnecessary.” His voice rang out authoritatively. Poirot blinked gently at him. “It will be a mere formality,” he said. “But you understand, it is necessary
“It will be a mere formality,” he said. “But you understand, it is necessary for my report.” “As you please.” The Count gave way grudgingly. He made a short, foreign bow and left the dining car. Poirot reached out a hand to a passport. It set out the Count’s name and titles. He passed on to the further information—accompanied by wife. Christian name Elena Maria; maiden name Goldenberg; age twenty. A spot of grease had been dropped some time by a careless official on it. “A diplomatic passport,” said M. Bouc. “We must be careful, my friend, to give no offence. These people can have nothing to do with the murder.” “Be easy, mon vieux, I will be most tactful. A mere formality.” His voice dropped as the Countess Andrenyi entered the dining car. She looked timid and extremely charming. “You wish to see me, Messieurs?” “A mere formality, Madame la Comtesse.” Poirot rose gallantly, bowed her into the seat opposite him. “It is only to ask you if you saw or heard anything last night that may throw light upon this matter.” “Nothing at all, Monsieur. I was asleep.” “You did not hear, for instance, a commotion going on in the compartment next to yours? The American lady who occupies it had quite an attack of hysterics and rang for the conductor.” “I heard nothing, Monsieur. You see, I had taken a sleeping draught.” “Ah! I comprehend. Well, I need not detain you further.” Then, as she rose swiftly, “Just one little minute—these particulars, your maiden name, age and so on, they are correct?” “Quite correct, Monsieur.” “Perhaps you will sign this memorandum to that effect, then.” She signed quickly, a graceful slanting handwriting. Elena Andrenyi. “Did you accompany your husband to America, Madame?” “No, Monsieur.” She smiled, flushed a little. “We were not married then; we have only been married a year.” “Ah yes, thank you, Madame. By the way, does your husband smoke?” She stared at him as she stood poised for departure. “Yes.” “A pipe?” “No. Cigarettes and cigars.” “Ah! Thank you.” She lingered; her eyes watched him curiously. Lovely eyes they were, dark
She lingered; her eyes watched him curiously. Lovely eyes they were, dark and almond shaped, with very long black lashes that swept the exquisite pallor of her cheeks. Her lips, very scarlet, in the foreign fashion, were parted just a little. She looked exotic and beautiful. “Why did you ask me that?” “Madame,” Poirot waved an airy hand, “detectives have to ask all sorts of questions. For instance, perhaps you will tell me the colour of your dressing gown?” She stared at him. Then she laughed. “It is corn-coloured chiffon. Is that really important?” “Very important, Madame.” She asked curiously: “Are you really a detective, then?” “At your service, Madame.” “I thought there were no detectives on the train when it passed through Yugo-Slavia—not until one got to Italy.” “I am not a Yugo-Slavian detective, Madame. I am an international detective.” “You belong to the League of Nations?” “I belong to the world, Madame,” said Poirot dramatically. He went on, “I work mainly in London. You speak English?” he added in that language. “I speak a leetle, yes.” Her accent was charming. Poirot bowed once more. “We will not detain you further, Madame. You see, it was not so very terrible.” She smiled, inclined her head and departed. “Elle est jolie femme,” said M. Bouc appreciatively. He sighed. “Well, that did not advance us much.” “No,” said Poirot. “Two people who saw nothing and heard nothing.” “Shall we now see the Italian?” Poirot did not reply for a moment. He was studying a grease spot on a Hungarian diplomatic passport.
Eight THE EVIDENCE OF COLONEL ARBUTHNOT Poirot roused himself with a slight start. His eyes twinkled a little as they met the eager ones of M. Bouc. “Ah! my dear old friend,” he said. “You see, I have become what they call the snob! The first-class, I feel it should be attended to before the second-class. Next, I think, we will interview the good looking Colonel Arbuthnot.” Finding the Colonel’s French to be of a severely limited description, Poirot conducted his interrogation in English. Arbuthnot’s name, age, home address and exact military standing were all ascertained. Poirot proceeded: “It is that you come home from India on what is called the leave—what we call en permission?” Colonel Arbuthnot, uninterested in what a pack of foreigners called anything, replied with true British brevity: “Yes.” “But you do not come home on the P. & O. boat?” “No.” “Why not?” “I chose to come by the overland route for reasons of my own.” “And that,” his manner seemed to say, “is one for you, you interfering little jackanapes.” “You came straight through from India?” The Colonel replied dryly: “I stopped for one night to see Ur of the Chaldees and for three days in Baghdad with the A.O.C., who happens to be an old friend of mine.” “You stopped three days in Baghdad. I understand that the young English lady, Miss Debenham, also comes from Baghdad. Perhaps you met her there?” “No, I did not. I first met Miss Debenham when she and I shared the railway convoy car from Kirkuk to Nissibin.” Poirot leaned forward. He became persuasive and a little more foreign than he need have been. “Monsieur, I am about to appeal to you. You and Miss Debenham are the
“Monsieur, I am about to appeal to you. You and Miss Debenham are the only two English people on the train. It is necessary that I should ask you each your opinion of the other.” “Highly irregular,” said Colonel Arbuthnot coldly. “Not so. You see, this crime, it was most probably committed by a woman. The man was stabbed no less than twelve times. Even the chef de train said at once, ‘It is a woman.’ Well, then, what is my first task? To give all the women travelling on the Stamboul-Calais coach what Americans call the ‘once over.’ But to judge of an Englishwoman is difficult. They are very reserved, the English. So I appeal to you, Monsieur, in the interests of justice. What sort of a person is this Miss Debenham? What do you know about her?” “Miss Debenham,” said the Colonel with some warmth, “is a lady.” “Ah!” said Poirot with every appearance of being much gratified. “So you do not think that she is likely to be implicated in this crime?” “The idea is absurd,” said Arbuthnot. “The man was a perfect stranger—she had never seen him before.” “Did she tell you so?” “She did. She commented at once upon his somewhat unpleasant appearance. If a woman is concerned, as you seem to think (to my mind without any evidence but mere assumption), I can assure you that Miss Debenham could not possibly be indicated.” “You feel warmly in the matter,” said Poirot with a smile. Colonel Arbuthnot gave him a cold stare. “I really don’t know what you mean,” he said. The stare seemed to abash Poirot. He dropped his eyes and began fiddling with the papers in front of him. “All this is by the way,” he said. “Let us be practical and come to facts. This crime, we have reason to believe, took place at a quarter past one last night. It is part of the necessary routine to ask everyone on the train what he or she was doing at that time.” “Quite so. At a quarter past one, to the best of my belief, I was talking to the young American fellow—secretary to the dead man.” “Ah! Were you in his compartment, or was he in yours?” “I was in his.” “That is the young man of the name of MacQueen?” “Yes.” “He was a friend or acquaintance of yours?” “No, I never saw him before this journey. We fell into casual conversation yesterday and both became interested. I don’t as a rule like Americans—haven’t
any use for ’em—” Poirot smiled, remembering MacQueen’s strictures on “Britishers.” “—But I liked this young fellow. He’d got hold of some tom-fool idiotic ideas about the situation in India; that’s the worst of Americans—they’re so sentimental and idealistic. Well, he was interested in what I had to tell him. I’ve had nearly thirty years experience of the country. And I was interested in what he had to tell me about the financial situation in America. Then we got down to world politics in general. I was quite surprised to look at my watch and find it was a quarter to two.” “That is the time you broke up this conversation?” “Yes.” “What did you do then?” “Walked along to my own compartment and turned in.” “Your bed was made up ready?” “Yes.” “That is the compartment—let me see—No. 15—the one next but one to the end away from the dining car?” “Yes.” “Where was the conductor when you went to your compartment?” “Sitting at the end at a little table. As a matter of fact, MacQueen called him just as I went to my own compartment.” “Why did he call him?” “To make up his bed, I suppose. The compartment hadn’t been made up for the night.” “Now, Colonel Arbuthnot, I want you to think carefully. During the time you were talking to Mr. MacQueen did anyone pass along the corridor outside the door?” “A good many people, I should think. I wasn’t paying attention.” “Ah! but I am referring to—let us say the last hour and a half of your conversation. You got out at Vincovci, didn’t you?” “Yes, but only for about a minute. There was a blizzard on. The cold was something frightful. Made one quite thankful to get back to the fug, though as a rule I think the way these trains are overheated is something scandalous.” M. Bouc sighed. “It is very difficult to please everybody,” he said. “The English, they open everything—then others, they come along and shut every thing. It is very difficult.” Neither Poirot nor Colonel Arbuthnot paid any attention to him. “Now, Monsieur, cast your mind back,” said Poirot encouragingly. “It was cold outside. You have returned to the train. You sit down again, you smoke—
cold outside. You have returned to the train. You sit down again, you smoke— perhaps a cigarette, perhaps a pipe—” He paused for the fraction of a second. “A pipe for me. MacQueen smoked cigarettes.” “The train starts again. You smoke your pipe. You discuss the state of Europe—of the world. It is late now. Most people have retired for the night. Does anyone pass the door—think?” Arbuthnot frowned in the effort of remembrance. “Difficult to say,” he said. “You see, I wasn’t paying any attention.” “But you have the soldier’s observation for detail. You notice without noticing, so to speak.” The Colonel thought again, but shook his head. “I couldn’t say. I don’t remember anyone passing except the conductor. Wait a minute—and there was a woman, I think.” “You saw her? Was she old—young?” “Didn’t see her. Wasn’t looking that way. Just a rustle and a sort of smell of scent.” “Scent? A good scent?” “Well, rather fruity, if you know what I mean. I mean you’d smell it a hundred yards away. But mind you,” the Colonel went on hastily, “this may have been earlier in the evening. You see, as you said just now, it was just one of those things you notice without noticing, so to speak. Some time that evening I said to myself, ‘Woman—scent—got it on pretty thick.’ But when it was I can’t be sure, except that—why, yes, it must have been after Vincovci.” “Why?” “Because I remember—sniffing, you know—just when I was talking about the utter washout Stalin’s Five Year Plan was turning out. I know the idea— woman—brought the idea of the position of women in Russia into my mind. And I know we hadn’t got on to Russia until pretty near the end of our talk.” “You can’t pin it down more definitely than that?” “N-no. It must have been roughly within the last half hour.” “It was after the train had stopped?” The other nodded. “Yes, I’m almost sure it was.” “Well, we will pass from that. Have you ever been in America, Colonel Arbuthnot?” “Never. Don’t want to go.” “Did you ever know a Colonel Armstrong?” “Armstrong—Armstrong—I’ve known two or three Armstrongs. There was Tommy Armstrong in the 60th—you don’t mean him? And Selby Armstrong—
Tommy Armstrong in the 60th—you don’t mean him? And Selby Armstrong— he was killed on the Somme.” “I mean the Colonel Armstrong who married an American wife and whose only child was kidnapped and killed.” “Ah, yes, I remember reading about that—shocking affair. I don’t think I actually ever came across the fellow, though, of course, I knew of him. Toby Armstrong. Nice fellow. Everybody liked him. He had a very distinguished career. Got the V.C.” “The man who was killed last night was the man responsible for the murder of Colonel Armstrong’s child.” Arbuthnot’s face grew rather grim. “Then in my opinion the swine deserved what he got. Though I would have preferred to have seen him properly hanged—or electrocuted, I suppose, over there.” “In fact, Colonel Arbuthnot, you prefer law and order to private vengeance?” “Well, you can’t go about having blood feuds and stabbing each other like Corsicans or the Mafia,” said the Colonel. “Say what you like, trial by jury is a sound system.” Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for a minute or two. “Yes,” he said. “I am sure that would be your view. Well, Colonel Arbuthnot, I do not think there is anything more I have to ask you. There is nothing you yourself can recall last night that in any way struck you—or shall we say strikes you now looking back—as suspicious?” Arbuthnot considered for a moment or two. “No,” he said. “Nothing at all. Unless—” he hesitated. “But yes, continue, I pray of you.” “Well, it’s nothing really,” said the Colonel slowly. “But you said anything.” “Yes, yes. Go on.” “Oh, it’s nothing. A mere detail. But as I got back to my compartment I noticed that the door of the one beyond mine—the end one, you know—” “Yes, No. 16.” “Well, the door of it was not quite closed. And the fellow inside peered out in a furtive sort of way. Then he pulled the door to quickly. Of course, I know there’s nothing in that—but it just struck me as a bit odd. I mean, it’s quite usual to open a door and stick your head out if you want to see anything. But it was the furtive way he did it that caught my attention.” “Ye-es,” said Poirot doubtfully. “I told you there was nothing to it,” said Arbuthnot apologetically. “But you know what it is—early hours of the morning—everything very still—the thing had a sinister look—like a detective story. All nonsense, really.”
had a sinister look—like a detective story. All nonsense, really.” He rose. “Well, if you don’t want me any more—” “Thank you, Colonel Arbuthnot, there is nothing else.” The soldier hesitated for a minute. His first natural distaste for being questioned by “foreigners” had evaporated. “About Miss Debenham,” he said rather awkwardly. “You can take it from me that she’s all right. She’s a pukka sahib.” Flushing a little, he withdrew. “What,” asked Dr. Constantine with interest, “does a pukka sahib mean?” “It means,” said Poirot, “that Miss Debenham’s father and brothers were at the same kind of school as Colonel Arbuthnot.” “Oh!” said Dr. Constantine, disappointed. “Then it has nothing to do with the crime at all.” “Exactly,” said Poirot. He fell into a reverie, beating a light tattoo on the table. Then he looked up. “Colonel Arbuthnot smokes a pipe,” he said. “In the compartment of Mr. Ratchett I found a pipe cleaner. M. Ratchett smoked only cigars.” “You think—?” “He is the only man so far who admits to smoking a pipe. And he knew of Colonel Armstrong—perhaps actually did know him though he won’t admit it.” “So you think it possible—” Poirot shook his head violently. “That is just it—it is impossible—quite impossible—that an honourable, slightly stupid, upright Englishman should stab an enemy twelve times with a knife! Do you not feel, my friends, how impossible it is?” “That is the psychology,” said M. Bouc. “And one must respect the psychology. This crime has a signature and it is certainly not the signature of Colonel Arbuthnot. But now to our next interview.” This time M. Bouc did not mention the Italian. But he thought of him.
Nine THE EVIDENCE OF MR. HARDMAN The last of the first-class passengers to be interviewed—Mr. Hardman—was the big flamboyant American who had shared a table with the Italian and the valet. He wore a somewhat loud check suit, a pink shirt, a flashy tiepin, and was rolling something round his tongue as he entered the dining car. He had a big, fleshy, coarse-featured face, with a good humoured expression. “Morning, gentlemen,” he said. “What can I do for you?” “You have heard of this murder, Mr.—er—Hardman?” “Sure.” He shifted the chewing gum deftly. “We are of necessity interviewing all the passengers on the train.” “That’s all right by me. Guess that’s the only way to tackle the job.” Poirot consulted the passport lying in front of him. “You are Cyrus Bethman Hardman, United States subject, forty-one years of age, travelling salesman for typewriting ribbons?” “O.K., that’s me.” “You are travelling from Stamboul to Paris?” “That’s so.” “Reason?” “Business.” “Do you always travel first-class, Mr. Hardman?” “Yes, sir. The firm pays my travelling expenses.” He winked. “Now, Mr. Hardman, we come to the events of last night.” The American nodded. “What can you tell us about the matter?” “Exactly nothing at all.” “Ah, that is a pity. Perhaps, Mr. Hardman, you will tell us exactly what you did last night, from dinner onwards?” For the first time the American did not seem ready with his reply. At last he said: “Excuse me, gentlemen, but just who are you? Put me wise.” “This is M. Bouc, a director of the Compagnie des Wagons Lits. This
“This is M. Bouc, a director of the Compagnie des Wagons Lits. This gentleman is the doctor who examined the body.” “And you yourself?” “I am Hercule Poirot. I am engaged by the company to investigate this matter.” “I’ve heard of you,” said Mr. Hardman. He reflected a minute or two longer. “Guess I’d better come clean.” “It will certainly be advisable for you to tell us all you know,” said Poirot dryly. “You’d have said a mouthful if there was anything I did know. But I don’t. I know nothing at all—just as I said. But I ought to know something. That’s what makes me sore. I ought to.” “Please explain, Mr. Hardman.” Mr. Hardman sighed, removed the chewing gum, and dived into a pocket. At the same time his whole personality seemed to undergo a change. He became less of a stage character and more of a real person. The resonant nasal tones of his voice became modified. “That passport’s a bit of bluff,” he said. “That’s who I really am.” Poirot scrutinized the card flipped across to him. M. Bouc peered over his shoulder. Mr. CYRUS B. HARDMAN McNeil’s Detective Agency, NEW YORK. Poirot knew the name. It was one of the best known and most reputable private detective agencies in New York. “Now, Mr. Hardman,” he said. “Let us hear the meaning of this.” “Sure. Things came about this way. I’d come over to Europe trailing a couple of crooks—nothing to do with this business. The chase ended in Stamboul. I wired the Chief and got his instructions to return, and I would have been making my tracks back to little old New York when I got this.” He pushed across a letter. The heading at the top was the Tokatlian Hotel. Dear Sir,—You have been pointed out to me as an operative of the McNeil Detective Agency. Kindly report to my suite at four o’clock this afternoon.
It was signed “S.E. Ratchett.” “Eh bien?” “I reported at the time stated and Mr. Ratchett put me wise to the situation. He showed me a couple of letters he’d got.” “He was alarmed?” “Pretended not to be, but he was rattled all right. He put up a proposition to me. I was to travel by the same train as he did to Parrus and see that nobody got him. Well, gentlemen, I did travel by the same train and, in spite of me, somebody did get him. I certainly feel sore about it. It doesn’t look any too good for me.” “Did he give you any indication of the line you were to take?” “Sure. He had it all taped out. It was his idea that I should travel in the compartment alongside his—well, that was blown upon straight away. The only place I could get was berth No. 16, and I had a bit of a job getting that. I guess the conductor likes to keep that compartment up his sleeve. But that’s neither here nor there. When I looked all round the situation, it seemed to me that No. 16 was a pretty good strategic position. There was only the dining car in front of the Stamboul sleeping car, the door on to the platform at the front end was barred at night. The only way a thug could come was through the rear end door to the platform or along the train from the rear—in either case he’d have to pass right by my compartment.” “You had no idea, I suppose, of the identity of the possible assailant.” “Well, I knew what he looked like. Mr. Ratchett described him to me.” “What?” All three men leaned forward eagerly. Hardman went on: “A small man, dark, with a womanish kind of voice—that’s what the old man said. Said, too, that he didn’t think it would be the first night out. More likely the second or third.” “He knew something,” said M. Bouc. “He certainly knew more than he told his secretary,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Did he tell you anything about this enemy of his? Did he, for instance, say why his life was threatened?” “No, he was kinder reticent about that part of it. Just said the fellow was out for his blood and meant to get it.” “A small man—dark—with a womanish voice,” said Poirot thoughtfully. Then, fixing a sharp glance on Hardman, he said: “You knew who he really was, of course?” “Which, mister?” “Ratchett. You recognized him?”
“Ratchett. You recognized him?” “I don’t get you.” “Ratchett was Cassetti, the Armstrong murderer.” Mr. Hardman gave way to a prolonged whistle. “That certainly is some surprise!” he said. “Yes, sir! No, I didn’t recognize him. I was away out West when that case came on. I suppose I saw photos of him in the papers, but I wouldn’t recognize my own mother when a press photographer had done with her. Well, I don’t doubt that a few people had it in for Cassetti all right.” “Do you know of anyone connected with the Armstrong case who answers to that description—small, dark, womanish voice?” Hardman reflected a minute or two. “It’s hard to say. Pretty nearly everyone to do with that case is dead.” “There was the girl who threw herself out of the window, remember.” “Sure. That’s a good point, that. She was a foreigner of some kind. Maybe she had some wop relations. But you’ve got to remember that there were other cases besides the Armstrong case. Cassetti had been running this kidnapping stunt some time. You can’t concentrate on that only.” “Ah, but we have reason to believe that this crime is connected with the Armstrong case.” Mr. Hardman cocked an inquiring eye. Poirot did not respond. The American shook his head. “I can’t call to mind anybody answering that description in the Armstrong case,” he said slowly. “But of course I wasn’t in it and didn’t know much about it.” “Well, continue your narrative, M. Hardman.” “There’s very little to tell. I got my sleep in the daytime and stayed awake on the watch at night. Nothing suspicious happened the first night. Last night was the same, as far as I was concerned. I had my door a little ajar and watched. No stranger passed.” “You are sure of that, M. Hardman?” “I’m plumb certain. Nobody got on that train from outside and nobody came along the train from the rear carriages. I’ll take my oath on that.” “Could you see the conductor from your position?” “Sure. He sits on that little seat almost flush with my door.” “Did he leave that seat at all after the train stopped at Vincovci?” “That was the last station? Why, yes, he answered a couple of bells—that would be just after the train came to a halt for good. Then, after that, he went past me into the rear coach—was there about a quarter of an hour. There was a bell ringing like mad and he came back running. I stepped out into the corridor
bell ringing like mad and he came back running. I stepped out into the corridor to see what it was all about—felt a mite nervous, you understand—but it was only the American dame. She was raising hell about something or other. I grinned. Then he went on to another compartment and came back and got a bottle of mineral water for someone. After that he settled down in his seat till he went up to the far end to make somebody’s bed up. I don’t think he stirred after that until about five o’clock this morning.” “Did he doze off at all?” “That I can’t say. He may have done.” Poirot nodded. Automatically his hands straightened the papers on the table. He picked up the official card once more. “Be so good as just to initial this,” he said. The other complied. “There is no one, I suppose, who can confirm your story of your identity, M. Hardman?” “On this train? Well, not exactly. Unless it might be young MacQueen. I know him well enough—seen him in his father’s office in New York—but that’s not to say he’ll remember me from a crowd of other operatives. No, Mr. Poirot, you’ll have to wait and cable New York when the snow lets up. But it’s O.K. I’m not telling the tale. Well, so long, gentlemen. Pleased to have met you, Mr. Poirot.” Poirot proffered his cigarette case. “But perhaps you prefer a pipe?” “Not me.” He helped himself, then strode briskly off. The three men looked at each other. “You think he is genuine?” asked Dr. Constantine. “Yes, yes. I know the type. Besides, it is a story that would be very easily disproved.” “He has given us a piece of very interesting evidence,” said M. Bouc. “Yes, indeed.” “A small man, dark, with a high-pitched voice,” said M. Bouc thoughtfully. “A description which applies to no one on the train,” said Poirot.
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